


Static

by ofthesun



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Character Study, Drabble, Gen, Post-Split, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 01:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8824951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofthesun/pseuds/ofthesun
Summary: Ryan wakes up alone after three months of radio silence.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So earlier this year I wrote a poem loosely outlining a theory I have about the split for my English class. This is the expanded, narrative version of that. Unedited, raw, me-being-emo content.

In July, Ryan wakes up alone. The day is different. It's unseasonably chilly in Vegas, and even though he's lived alone for the last few years, the emptiness of his home seems more vivid than usual. He hears every motion he makes, rolling out of bed and pulling himself to a stand on the floor. He feels his footsteps rolling against the wood floor of the hallway leading to his kitchen. The coffeemaker seems louder than it usually does, and he stirs the creamer into his drink, listening to the tap of the spoon against the mug. He typically likes living alone, but right now, it's eerie and uncomfortable and he'd give anything to fly Jon out from Chicago. Anything to make this whole situation a little less uncomfortable. But Jon is busy with Cassie, and Ryan just talked to him yesterday, and God, he isn't that needy.

He's fine. He's a grown man, and he's entirely capable of living by himself.

Spencer is staying at his parents' house back in Summerlin. Ryan only knows because Ginger had called him, just to talk, and she'd mentioned that he was home with them. Ryan had fondly recalled a time when the Smith's home was his, too. Ginger said it still was - it _always_ was - but he knew that wasn't really true, not when he and Spencer weren't talking, something they hadn't done since they were toddlers. He sits down at the table in his kitchen, glancing to the window overlooking his front yard. The streets are empty, cars long-gone from driveways. It's late morning on a Monday -- all the adults in his neighbourhood are working, all the kids are occupied with friends and summer camps. It certainly doesn't help his overwhelming sense of isolation.

Ryan is pretty sure Brendon had mentioned he'd gotten a place somewhere out here in Vegas, too. He can't clearly recall it, but Ryan remembers talk of an apartment in downtown, something about the pains of signing the lease. Brendon had talked about it in February, maybe? He wishes he could remember. He wishes he hadn't deleted Brendon's number from his phone in a fit of immature anger, actually. They haven't talked since the last show, but he knows Brendon would know a way to breathe liveliness back into his home.

He can't call Brendon. Even if he can find Brendon's number somewhere, he can't. It's over. He knows it's over, but if he calls Brendon, it'll be official. They haven't talked about it yet, but he's pretty sure they all know it's over. Nobody wants to talk about it, though, because right now, it's just this concept floating around in space, but the moment any of them discusses it, suddenly, it'll be real. Ryan shudders as his dog turns over in her sleep in the other room. He stills, watching through the window as the mailman comes down the sidewalk, and turns into his yard, walking up the path to his porch. He hears a couple things thud on the wood, and there's a knock at the door. Ryan watches as the mailman comes back down the path, returning to the street. As the figure disappears around the end of the block, he gets up and goes to the front door, pulling it open. A box, a bag, and three letters are stacked on the porch. He opens the screen door just far enough to pull the pile inside, pushing both doors shut with his foot behind him. The box is addressed from Jon. He sets it aside and goes for whatever's in the bag first.

It's a new phone book.

Ryan stares at the shiny cover with the name, 'Clark County 2009' sprawled across it in massive letters. He doesn't take the time to let himself reconsider, and dives in to the book, finding the Vegas section first, then searching through last names. He finds the name he's looking for near the end of the alphabet, designated with a 'new listing' symbol and a 702 area code. He recognises the address, it's near a diner he and Spencer went to as kids, and he knows it's about a twenty-minute walk from his house. He won't go over there, though. The dignified and justified way to go about this would be in person. But God knows he's too much of a coward to ever do that. Ryan sets the phone book on the table and pulls his phone out of his pocket, setting it down beside the book. He breathes in and out, deeply, for a moment, trying to even out his breaths.

He can do this. He's twenty-two goddamn years old, and he needs to stop being so immature, anyways.

Ryan grabs the phone and leans over the phone book. He types the digits in as fast as he possibly can, not giving himself any more time to rethink any of his choices from today. He presses call and sets it on speaker as the line begins to ring.

It rings three times before the other end picks up. He can hear static and the incredibly distant sound of a dog barking.

"Ryan?" Brendon's voice says quietly, uncertainly.

"Brendon," Ryan responds, like an exhale.

"Ryan, fuck, I-"

"Stop," Ryan cuts him off. "I'm- It's over. It's done." Brendon doesn't respond, just breathes down the line shakily. "I'm done. Okay? I'm done." There's no response, again. The static rattles louder in absence of the grief Brendon can't find words for. The phone hangs up, and the static cuts short in an immediate end. Ryan sets his phone back down on the table. His hands are shaking, and he just stares out the front window.

It's done.


End file.
